Sometimes I wake up and know from the second I take my morning pee, checking my phone on the toilet until my legs go numb, that I will not be fit for the internet.
That was me, yesterday.
I misread posts, read too far into every comment, recognized snark where there may actually have been none, and in general, felt like every passive aggressive status was probably about me.
I typed so many comments into so many boxes yesterday, only to delete the shit out of them.
Nah B, you cannot say that today. You can say it tomorrow if it’s still in your heart, but today you can only play with soft things or write words in journals. No keyboards for you, nothing permanent.
You will not be attending the internet today.
It’s totally okay to pause social media, by the way. I know it’s hard because it moves so fast, and you’re afraid people will forget you, but they won’t.
I spend a lot of time thinking about that, especially lately.
My whole career exists on the internet or on a book shelf. I am in the business of consumption. Of being consumed; both the fun kind and the raw kind.
When I started this whole thing a decade ago, it was always really important to me to keep the relationships I made online reciprocal. I mean, hell, I was just so glad you want to be friends with me!
I was that girl in high school giving you gifts and offering to buy you dinner just so you’d hang out with me, and parts of that person are still inside of me, poking around, whispering shit in my ear when I feel a little unsure of myself.
Pssst. Her response to your post about sundresses seems a little sideways, maybe you should buy her a friendship necklace or tell her she looks really pretty today to see if she still likes you?
This is why I don’t have a fan page.
I don’t want fans, I want friends.
I want to know when your birthday is, or what you thought about the latest episode of Nashville, or what your kids wore on their first day of school.
But even friends misread shit.
The written word can fuck with tone like no other, and yesterday it fucked with me hard.
Then last night, my driveway camera alarms started going crazy.
Andy has our house blanketed in cameras, inside and out. It takes all the fun out of eating his leftovers and masturbating while he’s at work.
Even though it was 9pm and all the kids were asleep around me on the couch, I stepped outside without weapon or bra to investigate and found Andy alone, shooting hoops, lit only by the garage lights.
“What’s going on?” I asked, walking toward him.
And he just dropped the ball and charged me, bear hugging me, which is my favorite, because it makes me feel small against him, a feeling I so rarely get to experience. He was having the same day, and that was upsetting because he never shows me when he has those days.
He either walks around perpetually chill, or hides them so well he could very well be leading a double life somewhere and I would have no idea until a strange kid calls asking for their “daddy.”
And then his second wife and I split that life insurance money right on down the middle and go on vacation together to Hawaii.
Narrator: The funeral was low key and very tasteful.
Honestly, Andy and I are at our best when we’re struggling with something. We make a plan, we have meetings about the plan, we execute the plan, and then when it’s all over, we stand next to each other all, look at this shit we have conquered. Next!
It doesn’t often seep into our day to day lives, but yesterday it did, and we put ourselves in timeout and threw our tantrums in private.
Me, off the grid and watching movies with my vagina stuffed with cotton because the damn eclipse made my period come early and I was unprepared.
Him, jumping his sexy ass around our driveway making baskets.
A little bit of self-care to avoid telling anyone to eat a whole bag of dicks over a misunderstanding about how they said my bangs looked in a profile picture.
I was not okay for the internet yesterday.
Today I am playing it by ear.